


For Want of a Nail

by CarverClarke (Aricle), FionasEmbrace



Category: Dead Space, Dead Space 3 - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Dead Space 3, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 07:46:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4779398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aricle/pseuds/CarverClarke, https://archiveofourown.org/users/FionasEmbrace/pseuds/FionasEmbrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Want of a Nail<br/>For want of a nail the shoe was lost.<br/>For want of a shoe the horse was lost.<br/>For want of a horse the rider was lost.<br/>For want of a rider the message was lost.<br/>For want of a message the battle was lost.<br/>For want of a battle the kingdom was lost.<br/>And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Want of a Nail

The press of hoof on the loam of the path, creak of saddle leather and jangle of bridle- even the birds and wind in the brambles grew silent as the air closed in around him, so thick he could feel it in his throat and lungs. It was all quiet, too quiet, along the path, and he looked for signs. He watched, and waited. The sway of the bushes betrayed the approach of a something, or _somethings_ , bigger and more alien than himself. Certainly, he was used to seeing animals along the path.

These weren't animals. 

They weren't of our world or any realm known to the elders of his order. They were alien and horrific. Incredible monsters. Carver saw them, made of nothing he recognized, but could have sworn he knew them from some terrible dream. Nothing but a grotesque patchwork of flesh and muscle and teeth capable of sniffing out human lifeblood. How did they come to be here? 

Clearly, his god had given this place over. Perhaps it really was a visitation, settling up the balance for human sins. Perhaps it was his own due. Indeed, he was a sinner like anybody else. For all he knew, these terrible spectres were some kind of divine punishment. If only there were more time, he could pray for help. There wasn't time. There wasn't anything. He dismounted and drew his sword.

What manner of thing, human or animal, begot these? One was upon him before he could look upon its terrible face. He drove his blade up through the creature’s jaw. Its companions came at him from all sides, and Carver struck a smaller one down with the hilt of his blade, while his horse stove in the head of a lesser shade with a well-placed hoof. And one slim, narrow piece of metal was thrown into the air. It cut deep, piercing unnatural flesh. A terrible shriek. 

Lifeblood expelled from wound, the black ooze, creeping onto the ground, embracing his gloves. He recoiled and stifled the bile in his throat. The metal was this corpse’s, now.

Eventually, it was quiet. He gazed on the dead all around. There was nothing worldly about them. Nothing good or merciful, nothing deserving of pity or like sensibilities, but there were questions beyond counting and no time to dwell on them. 

Even as no demons yet drew breath, a message still wanted delivery. Even as the unhallowed blood stained his belongings, he had to ride onward.

He mounted his horse once more, and urged it forward. It didn’t walk, or run. It stumbled, and Carver realized the source of the problem: one missing horseshoe, lost to alien, unholy brains. 

No matter. To stop here, for want of a horseshoe? No, for want of a horseshoe, the rider would be lost, and all that depended upon him.

The path was long, hot and dreary. The footsore knight took no comfort in the absence of the rest of the horde. Walking alongside his weary mount, after so many long and taxing hours on the road, he saw nothing at all for miles. He didn’t know where to outfit his horse, or where to find the poor remains of civilization that might be left. One thing was for certain: the place was cursed.

But in the distance, hours later, he saw it. What turning in his fortunes might this augur or betray? He didn’t know. His god was silent on the subject. The smoke coming out of the chimney. The house was miles away, but the air was clear. Behind him, was the horde. Elsewhere, death. There was no other way but forward. 

* * *

As he entered the hamlet, all was silent save for the ringing of hammer on metal and the roar of a fire. He sighed in relief and his horse pricked up its ears- it must have recognized the familiar comfort of signs of human life after the sere countryside. Perhaps these two, horse and rider, were not lost after all.

The sound of a horse approaching caught the smith’s ear, and he lowered his hammer. Make no mistake about it, this horse and rider are in need- he told himself, for the distinct silvered sound of horseshoe to cobblestone had a missing note, the shoe on the right foreleg, at a guess.

Carver entered the forge and spoke a word of greeting and the smith turned from his work, wiped his hand clean, and extended it. Carver clasped his hand in greeting and the smith’s eyes went to the horse behind Carver, noting the foreleg and confirming his guess. His eyes returned to Carver and he nodded in reply to the unspoken request.

“Thank you. My name is Ser Carver and I’m delivering a message; the road was less than safe and my horse and I are footsore.”

Something caught the blacksmith’s eye. He knew well the armaments of his own kingdom’s militia. “Your mail, and your sword… It’s not a standard make, is it? Where are you from?” 

Carver described the territory from which he came, which was, as the smith understood it, many months’ journey away. Certainly farther than anywhere he had ever traveled. This knight may well have arrived from another sphere. To see any traveler in these troubled times was peculiar of its own accord, let alone one with unfamiliar armour.

“Things haven’t been safe hereabouts for some time. Name’s Isaac Clarke. Who’s your friend?”

Realizing he meant the horse, Carver had to smile, and replied, “That’s Blaze. He’s a friend indeed.”

“There’s hay in the corner, if he’d care for a bite. As for you, there’s a dipper of fresh water to be had from the well yonder,” gesturing to the small square not far from the forge. Carver muttered some words of gratitude and left to drink, and to wash his hands and face. The alien grime might have stained his gauntlet and chemise but he could at least keep it off his person. 

In the water, a scarred, battle-worn face gazed back at him. Though he had fewer years than yon blacksmith, the toll of battle by day and by dream had worn through many a pair of boots and inked many a wrinkle on his face. Nevertheless, he had some designs to recover his losses, yet. This message played a part in exactly that. It could very well be that this blacksmith marked the difference between success or failure, if only by helping him here. 

He glanced back toward the forge, and could see the silhouette in the window. Despite having the strength of a smith, Isaac did not appear like much of a fighter, as far as Carver was concerned. He wondered at how a man, flesh and blood like himself, could sustain any kind of existence out here. Surely it was dangerous. Surely, the demons would sniff him out. Carver dried his face on a clean part of his sleeve and shook away the darkness in his thoughts along with the last of the water on his hands. 

No sooner had he collected his gloves, than there came a terrible sound. 

A disturbance rent the air- familiar, inhuman shrieks. The silhouette at the window, gone. He dashed back to the forge, clumsily outfitting his gloves mid-stride. He prayed inwardly, fervently, that he was not too late. He drew his blade and ran inside the forge, sword in hand. 

No, he was not too late. But he saw- Isaac, cornered by them, and one of the abominations had a claw at his throat. 

A creature, not of this world- it shouldn't have been familiar to him. Carver was always led to believe that the moral path he'd chosen would keep these abominations on a different plane from himself. These were something out of _dreams_ , out of stories, out of some drunken illusion. Yet, he caught a glimpse of this one’s eyes. He peered into its face. He had seen these before, and knew of their terrible secret, and the reason why all the other human folk were gone. In its eyes, there was the primal instinct to kill, the same one that had spilled his blood and- _no, best not to think of her, of him_. 

It was moving too quickly. His blade wouldn’t connect. But he bludgeoned the talon away from Isaac’s throat, and pulled him to his feet. The creature fought Carver, and pushed him backwards, outside the forge. He rallied and overwhelmed the spectre with his blade. It thrashed about, clamoring for Isaac all the same, and Carver had to yank it back, by the throat, and dispatch it.

And in that time, he exchanged a wordless glance with the other man. How was there time for anything more? The myriad vermin swarmed at Carver’s feet, and another of the abominations made for Isaac. The blacksmith pulled a massive pair of tongs from a wooden basin, bludgeoned the creature's head then drove one end of the implement through its eyes. Carver ignored the vermin at his feet, and dispatched the other monstrosities in the room. The smaller, insect-like creatures, he stomped down. Then, and only then, it was quiet.

The knight let fall his sword, and dropped to his knees. The similarity was too much. These creatures, the alien blood, the corpses strewn across the dirt-

“Are you hurt, ser?”

The knight shook his head. “I’m well. I’m fine.”

Isaac looked around the yard. The bodies were inanimate, and would remain so. He told Carver, “Go, clean up your injuries.” Not one to argue, the knight returned to the well water. 

Wiping his face clean, he found dirt and metal residue and little else. He was fortunate not to have contaminated his blood with that of these creatures. He didn’t know for certain what the outcome of blood-mixing was, but he had strong suspicions. He’d seen the full extent of their ability to infect human folk. Those memories of his first confrontation with the demons never truly left. He re-lived the worst of it whenever he met that terrible, inhuman leer once more. When he had gazed on that one’s face in the forge. 

But that was in the past.

When he returned to the forge, the corpses were gone, the massive kiln was lit, and full of a mess of greasy ashes. Isaac swabbed the grime from his forehead with a rag and shoved the kiln door closed against the stench. He strode to the forge and lifted a hammer then settled it upon the bench. Carver approached, Isaac turned to face him, hand extended, and Carver clasped the strong hand in his.

“Thank you for the timely rescue, ser. Seems I have been repaid more richly than ever I could’ve imagined for shoeing your horse.”

“We have done well by each other this day. I wonder if you might-”

The hand on his moved to his shoulder, and the smith was all at once closer than anyone had been to him in some time, since he had taken that oath. Since he had last seen _her_.

He pushed the thought away, before it was too late. As he found himself moving closer to Isaac; as he found himself halfway into a kiss- he realized it, and then yanked back. 

_This wasn’t her, what was this?_ Isaac had an opportunity to see something in Carver’s eyes shutter closed again but not before seeing a warmth in their depths, and Carver saw its likeness in the blue eyes looking back at him, and both men stepped away. 

Isaac curled his hands around the handle of his hammer and looked at Carver then down, said, “Sorry, that wasn’t part of a proper thank you. Let me make you another shoe for the road.”

Carver nodded curtly and fumbled among Blaze’s saddlebags to collect himself. Blaze whickered and Carver rubbed his neck affectionately, and his thoughts returned to the message’s recipient while the tingle of the lips on his and hand at his shoulder remained in his awareness. How was he to find the one to whom this message was to be delivered? He had not deciphered the riddle. _For want of a message, the rider was lost?_ He was the rider and he had the message, and all he had wanted for was a shoe and nail. He had both of those and another on the way. 

He shook his head, closed the saddlebag flap, and looked at the smith again. Isaac had bent himself to his work, something so earnest in it, and there was- _No, no, put that aside, she was gone_ , he remained, and that was all. 

He walked toward Isaac, the smith swung his hammer down and away, and quenched the shoe in the water. Tongs down, another swipe at his brow, the flames tinting the graying hair orange, and Isaac nodded at the shoe.

“There you go, and my apologies again.”

Carver swallowed and opened his mouth, closed it, touched Isaac’s shoulder as the smith hefted the hammer.

“Mayhaps you could set aside the hammer.”

Isaac did as asked, lowering it to the ground at his side, and stared back at Carver. “Was there something else you needed for the road?”

“I don’t know what I’m doing right now.” 

Carver put a hand on Isaac’s shoulder and stepped close, then closer, and tilted his head, discovered Isaac was of a height with him when their noses hit, and was saved by Isaac’s hand on his jaw. He followed through with his momentum and pressed his lips to Isaac’s. He met no response, formed the kiss and released that strong shoulder.

Isaac returned the kiss before Carver’s hand had fallen to his side, and Carver was caught in that swirl of memory again- her, but not her. In fact, it was _him_ now, and it mattered but did not matter. A kiss was still a kiss, and the two enjoyed it, warmed by fire and each other, the hammer tipped then fell from Isaac’s hand. Isaac held Carver’s waist, and Carver settled at Isaac’s waist in turn, found it bare where coverall and apron gapped, and did not shy away.

The blacksmith beckoned to him, and Carver followed him through the door at the rear of the forge. Behind the smithy and its forge was a clean, well-crafted cottage, and Isaac stepped through the door, leaving it open behind. When Carver crossed the threshold, Isaac was inside, laying a fire on the hearth.

Isaac smiled at him and Carver let the door fall closed behind him, after checking that his horse was safe. He felt the weight of the pouch containing the message where it hung on the worn cord at his neck and wondered at its importance. Something in the friendly warmth of the cottage, and this smith’s hospitality, brought a smile to his eyes, and he moved to the fire to warm himself.

**Author's Note:**

> From FionasEmbrace: I'm really grateful for the opportunity to do this collaboration. It was such a huge surprise to find out that there is still interest in the Dead Space fandom now. It isn't everyday I get to work on a story as special as this one and hope you enjoyed.
> 
> From Aricle: This was a pleasure to write and a true collaboration, as we both wrote it together at the same time (via google magic) for part of the process. I am very happy to have had the chance to write more in this universe with another fan/author. Please enjoy and comments are always welcome!


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